


Suppositions

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenogears
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigurd and Bart talk about boys. (Kind of.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suppositions

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this maybe a month or two ago, and somehow forgot about it until now? So I cleaned it up a little bit, and here we are now.
> 
> As a side note-- no one else has written anything Sig/Ram??? Anything??? I'm a little sad. Looks like I'll need to compensate...

Sigurd is starting to think that Bart enjoys this too much.

It’s become an end-of-the-week ritual—he stomps down from the bridge around 10 o’clock, singing and skipping merry old tunes of the deserts and the seas. He winks at every lady he passes, bows to every man, and sits himself down in front of the old Maison, and demands a mug of ale.

That damned sea captain must’ve got to him more than Sigurd had realized. The Young Master is acting more pirate-like and crass with each passing day. It’s going to be a proper nightmare, when he actually has to settle down and rule a whole country.

Thus, Sigurd choooses not to dwell on that much these days.

“Don’t let poor Billy see you doing that,” Sigurd comments softly from the stool beside the prince. “Romantic commitment isn’t anything to take lightly.”

Bart snorts, not to his surprise. “He knows I’m not actually flirting with them.”

“Does he?”

“He does.” Bart sounds firm enough in his convictions. However, Sigurd knows better.

“He’s a gentle boy, Young Master,” Bart turns away. “You might say it doesn’t matter, but…” He sips his water with purpose, knowing the pause must be somewhat brutal to Bart. “He isn’t quite as careless as _other_ people.” Bart doesn’t reply.

Bart always claims that Sigurd’s mood is perpetually foul at this hour. For some time, there wasn’t a night that went by without Bart taunting him for the somber mood he brought to the supposedly ‘jovial’ celebrations of ‘the pirate life.’ He quit it eventually—apparently realizing (at long last) that it was not Sigurd who was changing in temperament—

_“Ah, wait a second. You don’t drink.”_

Sigurd had given a short nod. _“I don’t drink.”_ A light went off in Bart’s head. They never discussed it again.

Of course, nothing really changes. Bart continues to drink and be foolish. Sigurd continues to sigh and watch over him.

“Y’know—“ Bart finally breaks the silence that had filled the space between them. “Are you calling me out?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you calling me out—on how I treat Billy?”

Sigurd furrows his brow. “I think you misunderstood—“

“Uh, I don’t think I do.” Bart’s voice is surprisingly sharp. Sigurd finds himself flinching at the sound of it. “You don’t think I’m being… faithful, to him, do you?”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it!”

“Not exactly!” Sigurd breathes another long sigh. How does he ever put up with this week after week?  Or rather, day after day—a drunk Bart is no different than a sober one—only a little louder. A little less… _restrained._  “I’m just worried your miscommunicating. I have no doubt you love Billy—but I don’t know if he’s so certain of it.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Bart is getting offended. Sigurd knows he needs to reach his point quicker; else this will be blowing up in his face shortly.

“Because…” He raises a hand and rubs at a headache starting to form behind his left eye. “Because more often than not, you don’t act like you’re in an _exclusive_ relationship. And Billy is the type of person who needs… who needs that sort of confirmation.”

Bart’s face tightens into a distinct grimace. He sighs. He takes a swig. He stares blankly off into the distance—not even daring to look at Sigurd.

“Sig…”

“Yes?”

“When was the last time you saw Billy? I mean, not like, today, but like, a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” Sigurd’s turn to look away. “He must’ve been…”

“What, about eight?” Bart cuts in. Sigurd tries to respond but, no, apparently isn’t his turn yet—“My point is, maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do. He can’t possibly be the same kid you knew back when you were _sleeping_ there.”  Sigurd frowns at the emphasis on ‘sleeping.’   Is he really getting that transparent?

Still, better to give in now. “I see your point,” He concedes with a tilt of the head. “However, I don’t retract mine.”

“Fair enough.”

“I think so.”

“…We really are happy, Sig--” This brings a smile to Sigurd’s face—it warms him to hear that. To see that look in Bart’s face, posture, and smile—the kind that radiates outward, from some deep, hidden, _inexact_ place inside. “He’s so _good._ It’s almost too adorable for me to handle. He’s like a little baby bird that got trapped in a human body, I swear…”

“It’s a nice feeling.”

“Yeah.”

“I can trust him to take care of you?”

“Hah! No, I take care of him!” Sigurd shakes his head—it’s all boasting and empty words. Bart is just as delicate, underneath all the bravado. Everyone is.

“Well… you two do have that… radiance. It’s visible, you know? Crushes and love are about as subtle as walking around with a giant sign hanging off your neck…”

“Even dense ol’ me could tell?” Bart asks, nudging Sigurd gently (or… not so gently) with his elbow.

“I’d imagine.”

“I’d _know_ ,” Bart retorts. His voice knocks Sigurd off-balance. It’s not the giddily drunk sound he expected—it’s frankly quite somber. It makes him want to leave right away. “You—loved someone back in…” He hesitates, choking on the world like it’s a lie. A betrayal. “…Solaris. Didn’t you?”

No point in lying. “--Yes.”

“And you’ve been thinking of him recently...” Bart pushes further.

“…Yes.” Sigurd has had quite enough now. His feet are brushing the floor and his hand is braced against the bar counter. He can spring at a moment’s notice. He’s practiced this. He’s done this on more than one occasion.

Bart’s fingers touch his wrist. He isn’t grabbing onto it—he’s being surprisingly tender. But it’s enough to tell Sigurd that he sincerely does not want him to leave him alone, just like that.

“You can tell me, Sig.”

Sigurd shakes his head. How wrong he is. “You already know,” He slides his hand out from under Bart’s and returns it to his lap. His body is still on high-alert though—and it was starting to seem like it might stay that way. Besides, he always finds a certain ecstasy in it—in drawing out the tension, and prodding it when it started to fade. He loves it. It’s a terrible feeling, and stressful to both mind and body, but there’s an inexplicable need for it that never releases its grasp on his heart. Perhaps it’s a substitute for drugs. Perhaps it’s a completely human reaction… to want to bear your heart and challenge your norms, after burying it all for so long. “It wouldn’t be appropriate anyway.”

It didn’t shock him to see the disappointment in Bart’s eye, but it hurt nonetheless. Gruffly, he grasped his mug and drew up his shoulders, curling in on himself like a ball. “Oh. Well, yeah, I guess I’m not your…”

“I’m not your friend,” Sigurd finished. “I’m your first mate. Your retainer. Anything else would only serve to complicate our professional relationship.” Bart is likely making a face right about now, but Sigurd could not see anything from where he sat.

“…Sig?”

“What is it?”

“I just wanna say that we’re awfully friendly for being just ‘professional.’”

“Perhaps. My mistake.”

“Maybe it’s not a mistake…” Bart is grumbling—Sigurd can barely hear the remark. It’s so pissy, he almost wishes he didn’t.

Although—when Bart words it like that...

“Well then. Let’s agree not to change anything?” Sigurd offers it with a raise of his glass. He’s not about to change their relationship over silly standards and a half-drunken conversation.

“Fine by me.” Bart agrees, clinking their glasses together in an improvised toast before taking yet another long swig and capping off with a suitably corny ‘ahhhhh.’

“Young Master…?” He’s going to regret this as much as Bart will regret that third mug come morning.

“Mmm?”

“It… do you know who _it_ was…?”

If Sigurd hasn’t lost all his sight and sanity, he’s fairly certain Bart just flashed him a look of genuine surprise. He honestly couldn’t believe Sigurd was opening up to him, or…?

“Uh. I…” He scratched at the back of his head, right where his sweep of blond hair came down into the braid. “I have an _idea_ , I guess… yeah.” Sigurd gazes at him meaningfully. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

“I see…” The air between them is a thick as swaths of cotton, and just as suffocating. They need to end this now, before it gets any more uncomfortable than it already is.

“Ramsus.” Bart finally spits out. “It was Ramsus. Am I right?”

Sigurd breathes in, then out, and smiles crookedly. It’s all terribly fake, but he’s practiced it enough for it to appear as anything _but._

“Very good,” He comments dryly, suddenly wishing his delicate system could handle just a beer or two. “You’ve gotten very observant. I’m almost proud…”

“I’m not gonna say that it was obvious,” Bart mumbles, the pride never leaving his voice. “But I’ll at least say that you didn’t make it any harder.” Sigurd sorts out the roundabout sentence in his mind and ends up in a place that confuses him even more than he already was. His heart feels heavy. His bed seems more and more attractive—he’s ready to close his eyes and hide from this day—

“Sig.”  Bart’s voice is clear, a shock among the slurred drunken rambling he’s spoken in thus far. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it, I mean, that’s your stuff, not mine…I’m not gonna butt my head in any more than I already do. Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” It’s a kind gesture, and despite himself, Sigurd appreciates it.

If Bart is anything, he’s loyal and he’s honest, even in the haze of alcohol. He stays true to his word.


End file.
